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Figure  I. 

Michel  Angelo  : A Slave 
Paris,  Louvre. 


THE  LATE  YEARS 
OF  MICHEL  ANGELO 


BY 

Wilhelm  R.  Valentiner 


New  York 

PRIVATELY  PRINTED 


MCMXIV 


Copyright,  1914 
by 

Frederic  Fairchild  Sherman 


Maria  Humann^Sarre 


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The  following  notes  were  written  to  be  des 
livered  as  a ledlure,  a fad:  that  may  in  some  de* 
gree  explain  their  form.  The  translation  from 
the  original  German  was  made  by  Mrs.  James 
Sharkey  to  whom  I desire  to  express  my  ins 
dehtedness.  Among  the  authors  consulted 
those  of  chief  importance  were  Henry  Thode 
and 

New  York 
February,  1914. 


Carl  Judi. 


W.  R.  V. 


* 


■}!» 


‘4, 


THE  LATE  YEARS 
OF  MICHEL  ANGELO 


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N THE  wKole  liistory  of  art  there 
is  no  greater  problem  than  the  one 
Michel  Angelo  presents;  and  yet 
history  has  furnished  us  with 
more  documents  relating  to  him 
than  to  any  other  of  the  great  masters . W e can 
trace  the  development  of  each  of  his  not  very 
numerous  works,  and  surely  the  mass  of  his 
letters  and  poems  and  the  detailed  chronicles 
of  his  contemporaries  should  throw  some  light 
on  his  attitude  towards  Kfe.  None  the  less,  the 
riddle  of  his  personahty  remains  unsolved,  and 
the  contradictory  conceptions  that  have  heen 
formed  of  his  character  and  his  achievement 
have  no  parallel  in  the  hij^tory  of  art  criticism. 

His  sculptures  seem  less  the  work  of  human 
hands  than  do  the  masterpieces  of  other  men. 
Their  bodies  are  as  of  iron,  their  spirit  belongs 
to  another  world  than  ours.  Yet  the  skin  is 
smooth  and  supple,  and  they  betray  a deep  and 
sympathetic  participation  in  the  lot  of  mans 
kind.  In  stature  these  figures  attain  the  meass 
ure  of  godhood,  but  their  souls  are  tortured  hke 
those  of  the  most  miserable  of  mortals,  ^/^e 


9 


can  hardly  realize  that  giants  can  writhe  in 
mental  anguish,  that  athletes  may  he  sensitive 
to  the  fingertips.  Of  a surety  a race  of  demi* 
gods  like  these,  whose  striving  souls  are  housed 
in  splendid  bodies,  has  not  yet  been  born  in  this 
world. 

The  spirit  of  their  creator  seems  to  consi^  of 
similar  contradidtions.  It  was  a colossal  ener* 
gy  which  with  mighty  mallet  ^rokes  released 
these  figures  firom  the  marble  block,  a mo^ 
delicate  hand  that  smoothed  their  sixrface  to 
velvet  curves  and  to  perfection  of  detail.  In 
great  things  as  in  small,  Michel  Angelo’s  is  a 
spirit  truggling  passionately,  never  quite  sue* 
cessfiiUy,  for  freedom  firom  material  fetters. 

Certain  critics  have  touched  upon  these  con* 
tradidlions.  W e recaH.  Hermann  Grimm’s  beau* 
tifiil  description  of  the  “Slave”  in  the  Louvre 
(Fig.  i).  “In  this  figure,  in  the  firt  bloom  of 
manhood,  he  sees  the  transfiguration  of  the  last 
and  greatet  of  human  truggles,  the  ultimate 
moment  between  life  aind  eternity,  the  shudder 
at  once  of  farewell  and  of  fulfilment,  the  col* 
lapse  of  powerful,  youthful  limbs  discarded  Hke 
splendid  armor  by  the  soul  in  its  upward  flight.  ” 
Such  massive  trappings  for  so  deUcate  a soul! 

This  contradiction  in  spirit  is  evident  too  in 
Michel  Angelo  the  man  as  revealed  in  his  poems 
and  letters.  To  some  of  us  he  seems  a spirit  in* 
^incit  with  a myi^tic  platonism,  to  others  the 


lO 


image  of  a CKri^ian  soul.  Now  he  is  shown  as 
a man  of  cold  spirituality,  again  as  torn  by  pas* 
sionate  longings.  Some  call  him  a great  soli* 
tary,  isolating  himself  from  a world  which  he 
holds  in  contempt;  others  declare  his  social  re* 
lations  to  have  been  representative  of  the  high* 
e^  type  of  Renaissance  culture.  He  has  been 
accused  of  pettiness,  intolerance,  avarice,  and 
self  seeking  and  has  been  described  as  great 
minded  and  generous — and  for  all  these  di* 
verse  charadleristics  convincing  proofs  may  be 
adduced. 

As  all  great  masters  seem  to  speak  more  di* 
rectly  as  their  years  advance,  a ghmpse  of  some 
of  Michel  Angelo’s  later  works  will  perhaps 
more  plainly  reveal  his  personal  standpoint. 
He  executed  several  designs  for  the  two  great 
friends  of  his  later  life,  Vittoria  Colonna  and 
Tommaso  Cavaheri,  whose  friendship  may  he 
said  to  typify  his  dual  temperament.  These 
sketches  are  illustrative  of  his  relationship  to 
both  the  pagan  and  the  Christian  tendencies  of 
the  Renaissance. 

The  “Fall  of  Phaeton,”  now  in  'Windsor 
Castle  (Fig.  2),  is  a design  of  classic  inspiration 
executed  for  Cavaheri.  It  is  a drama  of  the 
clouds.  On  high,  Jupiter,  enthroned  on  his 
eagle,  launches  the  thunderbolt.  In  the  center. 
Phaeton  is  precipitated  from  the  chariot  of  the 
Sun  while,  below,  the  daughters  of  the  river 


god  Eridanus  are  tewaiKng  the  fate  of  the  rash 
youth  who  dared  to  imitate  the  gods.  As  in  a 
wellsplanned  tragedy,  the  motive  cause — the 
wrath  of  the  gods — looms  very  small;  the  dra* 
matic  incident  itself — the  overturning  of  the 
chariot — is  stupendous,  and  its  tragedy  is  mir* 
rored  in  the  beholders  who  ^eind  neared.  The 
design  is  altogether  plastic  in  conception.  In 
spite  of  the  triangular  formation  each  figure  is 
independent  and  equally  visible  firom  all  sides, 
and  the  composition — unlike  that  of  a painter — 
is  not  planned  in  relation  to  a frame  but  is  di* 
vided  into  freelyspoised  plastic  masses.  It  is 
precisely  when  Michel  Angelo  expresses  him* 
self  through  another  medium  than  sculpture 
that  we  recognize  most  unerringly  where  his 
real  domain  lies.  His  pidlures  are  plastic  art  in 
paint;  his  eirchitecture  is  firozen  sculpture.  This 
has  become  a truism. 

It  is  a favorite  aphorism  that  the  great  Re« 
naissance  arti^s  were  equally  at  home  in  all 
forms  of  eirtii^ic  expression  — at  once  painters, 
sculptors,  and  architedls.  Mo^  assuredly  their 
general  ^andard  of  culture  was  high,  and  their 
intere^  extended  to  problems  outside  of  their 
own  particular  province.  But  hum£in  nature, 
which  achieves  greatness  only  through  concen* 
tration  and  limitation,  was  the  same  then  as 
now.  Leonardo  was  before  all  a painter  though 
he  executed  sculptures  which  were  pidlorial  in 


12 


Figure  2. 

Michel  Angelo:  The  Fall  of  Phaeton 
Drawing  in  Windsor  Castle. 


sitrgH 

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conception  and  of  wKicli,  by  tbe  way,  we 
know  very  little.  Raphael,  too,  was  a paints 
er,  if  he  occasionally  and  with  a less  bribing 
originality  appears  as  an  architedl.  BruneUess 
chi  was  an  architedt,  and  when  he  failed  in  the 
competition  with  Ghiberti  for  the  bronze  sculp* 
tures  for  the  Bapti^ry,  the  Florentine  judges 
were  scarcely  to  be  criticised  for  their  decision. 
Though  Michel  Angelo  exercised  mai^tery  over 
the  various  arti^ic  mediums,  even  a glance  at 
his  work  demon^rates  the  superflciahty  of  the 
idea  that  the  great  Renaissance  arti^s  were 
equally  at  home  in  all  forms  of  art. 

There  are  those  who  even  assert  that  as  Ke 
ranks  as  sculptor  so  also  he  ranks  as  poet.  He 
himself  regarded  his  poems  as  the  pa^imes  of 
an  idle  hour,  and  great  arti^s  are  not  prone  to 
deceive  themselves  in  regard  to  their  achieve* 
ments.  In  fad:,  these  sonnets  are  rich  in  self* 
revelation  for  those  intereded  in  Michel  An* 
gelo  the  man.  Regarded  as  poems  they  are 
efforts  of  no  great  originality  influenced  by 
Dante,  Cavalcanti,  Petrarch,  and  others — tor* 
mented  verses  whose  overweening  pessimism 
is  not  unconneded  with  the  fad  that  poetry  to 
Michel  Angelo  was  rather  an  artificial  impulse 
than  a compelling  need  of  the  soul.  W ere  these 
verses  from  another  and  obscurer  pen,  they 
might  have  received  a less  eager  meed  of  apprec* 
iation  from  later  generations. 


13 


How  comes  it,  tKougli,  tkat  Michel  Angelo, 
preeminently  a sculptor,  should  have  executed 
paintings  and  finished  drawings  like  the  “Phae» 
ton” — drawings  which  rank  in  themselves  as 
complete  compositions  and  were  in  his  own 
hfetime  as  celebrated  as  his  sculptures?  There 
is  no  doubt  that  originally  he  was  hut  little  in« 
tere^ed  in  flat  compositions.  V/e  know  with 
what  di^aste  he  received  the  Pope’s  commis* 
sion  to  decorate  the  ceiling  of  the  Si^ine  Chapel. 
Yet  in  the  end  he  was  not  working  in  a medium 
unsuited  to  his  powers.  Twenty  years  later  he 
undertook  without  demur  the  execution  of  the 
“Last  Judgment”  for  the  seime  chapel,  and  the 
drawings  for  Cavalieri  he  did  of  his  own  fi:ee 
wfll. 

While  decorating  the  Sistine  Chapel  he  had 
made  the  discovery  that  in  flat  composition  he 
could  reproduce  sculptural  motives  which  were 
almo^  impossible  of  execution  in  marble,  and 
which  his  daring  spirit  longed  to  embody. 
These  were  more  particularly  problems  of 
dramatic  action,  of  flight,  and  of  the  grouping 
of  masses,  the  problems  which  occupied  the 
artist  in  his  later  paintings  and  drawings.  W^e 
remember  his  incomparable  rendering  of  the 
ascent  and  descent,  the  soaring  and  retreating 
through  the  air,  of  the  “Last  Judgment.”  Itis  as 
though  this  artii^t,  ever  fascinated  by  the  im* 
possible,  who  once  dreamed  of  hewing  colossal 


14 


figures  firom  the  rocks  of  Carrara  Karkor,  liad 
^retclied  out  liis  liand  to  grasp  tke  privileges  of 
the  gods,  as  though  he  longed,  fireed  firom  the 
earthly  laws  of  gravitation,  to  reproduce  in 
sculpture  the  nebulous  apparitions  of  the  heav« 
ens . It  was  this  longing  for  superhuman  power 
which,  hhe  his  poetic  musings  on  the  world  to 
come,  gave  wing  to  his  phantasy  in  later  years. 
For,  so  far  as  works  in  marble  were  concerned, 
Michel  Angelo  shared  the  conviction,  common 
to  all  great  sculptors  of  preceding  ages,  of  the 
necessity  of  a restraint  and  a repose  commensu* 
rate  with  the  unyielding  quality  of  the  medium 
in  which  they  worked.  None  of  his  statues, 
from  the  “’David”  to  the  tombs  of  the  Medici 
and  the  monument  to  Pope  Julius  II,  repro* 
duces  any  transient  movement,  lea^  of  all  that 
of  flight.  The  crystalhz.ation  in  stone  of  some 
nebulous  vision,  so  typical  of  the  modern  school 
of  sculpture,  was  undreamed  of  by  him. 

When,  however,  it  comes  to  the  spiritual 
significance  of  the  “Phaeton”  drawing,  that 
deeply  convincing  portrayal  of  sorrowing  wo« 
men  shows  that  the  delineation  of  human  sufi 
fering  was  to  be  the  arti^'s  real  sphere.  His 
concern  is  not  with  victory  but  rather  with 
defeat,  not  with  the  joys  of  the  gods  but  with 
the  tragedies  that  beset  mankind,  and  joy* 
ous  pagan  themes,  wherever  they  occur  in  his 
works,  are  twisted  to  suit  this  dominant  ^rain. 


Wliere  the  theme  was  religious  this  transposh 
tion  was  unnecessary,  and  perhaps  for  this 
reason  the  Passion  of  our  Lord  ranks  foremo^ 
among  the  suhjedls  of  his  later  years.  Then,  too, 
Vittoria  Colonna,  advocate  of  an  enlightened 
Chri^ianity , seems  to  have  encouraged  this  ten* 
dency  in  him. 

There  exi^s  at  Viterbo  a work  unsurpassed 
in  the  annals  of  Italian  art — a Pieta  executed 
hy  Sehastiano  del  Piombo  from  the  cartoon  de* 
signed  hy  Michel  Angelo,  Seba^iano  having 
merely  added  the  indicated  landscape  (Fig.  4). 
What  a transformation  is  here  from  that  Pieta 
in  St.  Peter’s,  a creation  of  the  arti^’s  youth 
(Fig.  3)!  In  this  marble  sculpture  the  rehef 
like  conception  of  the  Quattrocento  is  ^ill  su* 
preme,  and  perspective  is  obtained  chiefly  hy 
a disposed  of  the  draperies,  which  in  their  frag* 
ility  naturedly  fail  of  the  sculptural  effect  pos* 
sible  to  figures.  The  superiority  of  the  later 
work,  the  painting  at  Viterbo,  is  evident  in  its 
more  plastic  conduction,  in  the  cohesion  of 
detail  and  the  free  emergence  of  the  forms  of 
the  bodies.  The  splendidly  massed  groups  re* 
solve  the  whole  depth  of  the  space  into  three 
gradations — the  dead  body,  the  Virgin’s  knees, 
and  the  upper  part  of  her  figure.  In  sheer  mov* 
ing  power,  that  earlier  sculptvire  in  St.  Peter’s 
which,  placed  as  it  is  in  the  ultimate  shrine  of  all 
pilgrimages,  for  centuries  has  birred  the  emo* 

16 


Figure  3. 

Michel  Angelo  : Pieta 
Saint  Peter’s,  Rome. 


V 


.{■  sijjgH 

ATax^  : o jhokA  janoiM 
■smoH  JxiicS 


tions  of  mankind,  was  probably  never  again 
equalled.  It  is  a youthful  arti^  who  bas  created 
a youthful  and  beautiful  Madonna;  and  we 
sympathize  more  with  childfhke  beings,  for 
whom  for  the  first  time  the  world  is  falling  in 
ruins,  than  with  the  older  ones  to  whom  at  the 
end  of  a long  life  sorrow  is  nothing  new.  The 
gesture  of  Mary’s  hand,  expressing  at  once  re* 
hellion,  doubt,  and  resignation,  is,  in  its  touch* 
ing  eloquence,  unique  in  the  history  of  Pietas. 
It  is  true  that  the  Virgin  wears  the  semblance 
and  the  garments  of  a queen,  but  she  is  ^iU 
human  enough  to  ^rive  with  Fate.  The  crea* 
tor  of  this  work  is  ^ill  the  Michel  Angelo  of 
the  Renaissance,  beheving  in  the  beauty  of  the 
world,  although  shades  of  melancholy  already 
play  around  his  brow. 

In  the  later  work  the  conception  is  ^ern 
and  inexorable.  The  monumental  figure  of  the 
Mother  of  God  seems  ^ony  with  grief.  She  has 
aged  like  the  arti^.  Her  divinity  has  vanished. 
She  realizes  that  her  fate  is  sealed.  There  is 
no  more  timid  withdrawal  into  herself,  no  an* 
guished,  loving  glance  towards  the  body  of 
her  Son;  her  gaze,  in^ind;  with  faith,  is  all 
for  heaven.  This  repose,  emphasized  by  the 
draight  lines  of  the  figure  in  the  foreground 
and  by  the  rigid  features  and  clenched  hands  of 
the  Virgin,  lends  something  grewsome  to  the 
group.  Its  artid  no  longer  finds  joy  in  decora* 


17 


tion  and  in  lovely  detail;  everytliing  is  reduced 
to  tlie  bare^  essentials.  He  is  one  who,  if  we 
con^rue  the  work  with  the  aid  of  his  own  te^i* 
mony,  hopes  through  faith  eilone;  he  is  the  ar? 
ti^  representative  of  a mighty  Church  who  is 
wre^ing  with  his  individual  reHgious  problem 
and  in  whom  faith,  alas,  is  powerless  to  ca^  out 
bitterness.  Only  the  naked  body  in  the  fore* 
ground  ^iU  seems  to  retain  something  of  mortal 
beauty — but  it  is  a hfeless  body. 

Michel  Angelo  had  changed  with  the  years. 
V/hen  he  carved  that  earlier  marble  Pieta,  Sa? 
vanarola  had  for  the  fin^t  time  essayed  to  fling 
his  torch  into  the  joyous  temple  of  Renaisseince 
art,  and  hght^hearted  Florence  had  once  more 
put  religious  passions  to  rout.  A httle  later, 
after  Michel  Angelo  had  painted  the  ceihng  of 
the  Si^ine  Chapel  and  during  the  mo^  gloris 
ous  flowering  of  the  fine  eirts  in  Rome,  there 
came  to  that  huge  Babylon  two  northern  wans 
derers  who  were  httle  intere^ed  in  arti^ic  cons 
cerns.  The  one,  MartinLuther, aCerman  monk, 
crept  with  thousands  of  other  unfortunates  up 
the  i^eps  of  St.  Peter’s,  seeking  in  vain  in  Rome 
the  absolution  of  his  sins.  The  second  pilgrim 
was  Erasmus  of  Rotterdeim,  who  remarked  that 
the  sermons  preached  before  the  Pope  treated 
of  Iphigenia  and  Mucius  Scaevola  rather  than 
of  the  Passion  of  Chrii^.  Again  twenty  years 
have  elapsed  and  we  are  in  the  year  1540.  The 

18 


German  monk  lias  kindled  in  the  north  a revos 
lution  again^  Rome  whose  flames  redden  the 
horizon,  and  the  Dutch  scholar  has  sharpened 
his  pen  for  a crusade  again^  folly.  Another 
Pope,  dismissing  the  pagan  ideas  of  the  war* 
like  Julius  II,  is  i^riving  to  ree^ablish  the  power 
of  a more  spiritual  Church. 

Michel  Angelo  could  not  remain  indifferent 
to  the  new  ideas  which  surrounded  him  on  edl 
sides  at  the  papal  court,  more  especially  as  his 
own  nature  was  susceptible  to  visions  of  the 
dread  consequences  of  sin.  It  was  his  misfor* 
tune  to  survive  by  more  than  thirty  years  the 
period  of  artii^ic  freedom  and  to  live  on  among 
the  ruins  of  that  golden  age.  Leoneirdo,  Ra* 
phael,  and  Andrea  del  Seirto,  the  representa* 
tives  of  the  joyous  Florentine  Renaissance, 
were  long  ago  at  rei^l.  He  alone  was  defined 
to  survive  in  an  epoch  more  absorbed  in  the 
Church  than  in  art.  He  had  become,  as  many 
of  his  letters  and  poems  te^ify,  an  orthodox 
adherent  of  the  Church,  more  orthodox  than 
seems  quite  natural  to  a free*souled  arti^.  And 
^ill  he  was  haunted  by  recoUedtions  of  his 
youthful  days  among  the  antique  gods  of  the 
Medici  gardens,  by  whisperings  of  the  free  air 
he  had  breathed  in  other  years  at  the  court  of 
the  great  Lorenzo  in  Florence.  V/hat,  in  their 
heart  of  hearts,  would  Fra  Filippo  and  Andrea 
del  Sarto  have  thought  of  the  theory  now 


19 


enunciated  hy  Micliel  Angelo,  that  to  paint 
holy  pictures  one  mu^  live  a holy  Kfe?  They 
did  not  suffer  from  his  duahty  of  spirit.  Like 
him  they  were  enamoured  of  hoddy  beauty, 
hut  they  were  not  dowered  with  his  deeply 
contemplative  spirit  which  felt  the  need  of  bar* 
mony  with  the  rehgious  convidtions  of  its  time. 
It  was  his  tragic  fate  to  he,  as  a child  of  his 
period,  a devout  Chri^ian,  while  his  arti^ic 
in^indls  blindly  ^rove  towards  pagan  things. 

Nevertheless,  he  was  not  one  of  those  who 
sought  refuge  from  his  problems  in  the  cloi^er, 
whose  religion  was  an  excuse,  cloaking  weak? 
ness  and  inertia.  Once,  indeed,  he  was  tempted 
to  forsake  the  great  city  with  its  incessant  call 
to  labor.  He  Parted  on  a pilgrimage  to  Loreto 
and  wrote  on  the  way,  “Truly  there  is  no 
peace  anywhere  save  in  the  fore^s".  When 
he  reached  Spoleto,  however,  the  Pope  recalled 
him  and  he  willingly  responded  to  the  sum? 
mons.  He  could  neither  quench  his  passion  for 
work  nor  quell  the  inner  tumult  of  his  nature — 
that  “terrihilita”  of  which  the  Pope  once  spoke, 
well  knowing  the  very  unecclesiai^ical,  lion? 
hke  tendencies  of  his  protege. 

This  all?compeUing  energy  is  Adi  manifeA 
in  his  later  work.  ContraAed  with  the 
gloomy  twdight  spirit  of  the  Viterbo  Pieta,  the 
freshness  of  the  morning  seems  to  reign  in  the 
bold  and  splendid  drawings  for  the  “Resvirrec? 


20 


Figure  4. 

Michel  Angelo  and  Sebastiano 
DEL  PlOMBO:  PlETA 
Museo  Comunale,  Viterbo. 


• ^ 31XXgi’i 

OMAj.T8Aaa8  OKA  ojhomA  jai-iaiM 
ATai^,  ; oaMox'I  jaa 
.oJasxP/  ,3lBnamoD  oaauM 


' !v'  . ,.|r .;  i )i.  fV'  '"r  ,^'''  '-yi  ■': '?  :‘f&^4-'V^'*''^:'' 

•!•'  ■i‘«..i.  / ■’■  ^ ■ ■■«,.'  , •»  • > ■'  •:.  ' ».'  ' :••  ••  * 1-  i-f 

:?.0l  '■- ',  'i-y  ; ]•  i 


/■'■  ,*  ’ -'  ,.f  .'  ,...  ...C*'  I - k 

' ' ^ . -v^'V  ' .-..  .’  f'. 


fy-^'4h 


kS:^ 


> l» 


..  vk- . 


i/'  '"  ' ■ ‘-'y:.  i: 


:4u^' 


tion  of  CKri^”  (Fig.  5).  TKe  lid  of  the  Sepulchre 
rises,  and  Hke  an  arrow  the  mighty  figure, 
with  hands  up^retched  to  freedom,  emerges 
triumphant  into  the  light  of  day.  It  is  the  tris 
umph  of  a superhuman  soul  and  hody.  This  is 
no  ^ill  departure  hut  a kingly  apparition  thun* 
derously  burning  its  bonds  while  the  onlook* 
ers  shrink  hack  in  trembling  awe. 

We  know  how  Michel  Angelo’s  predeces* 
sors  depidled  this  same  scene.  Chri^  is  seen 
rising  clumsily,  bolt  upright,  from  the  sar« 
cophagus,  one  foot  ^ill  in  the  grave,  landing 
rather  than  ascending.  Compared  with  Michel 
Angelo’s  conception,  where  the  figure  itself 
seems  in^indt  with  flight,  these  earlier  works 
sugge^  an  ascension  without  apparent  motion. 
The  effedt  of  Chris’s  ascending  movement,  in 
Michel  Angelo’s  rendering,  is  further  accens 
tuated  by  the  converse  movement  of  one  of  the 
shrinking  watchmen.  The  whole  composition 
unfolds  itself  to  the  Kght  like  the  cup  of  a flower. 
The  dominance  of  the  central  figure  is  not  alone 
a matter  of  size  and  force.  The  simple,  clear 
lines  of  the  hody  contra^  pleasingly  with  the 
unquiet  waves  of  reeling  figures,  like  the  ups 
springing  of  a youthful  ^em  among  twined 
^umps. 

Even  without  the  support  of  subordinate 
figures  the  production  of  a like  orche^ral  effect 
lay  well  within  the  powers  of  the  ma^er,  as 


-21 


the  ^udy  for  the  single  figure  of  Chri^  teto* 
kens  (Fig.  6).  Tfie  tension  of  the  limbs  seems 
like  a mighty  out^retching  after  the  sleep  of 
death.  The  muscles  ^eel  themselves  before  our 
eyes,  ^^e  see  the  blood  mounting  in  waves 
throughout  the  body.  The  mighty  figure,  glory* 
ing  in  its  new  life,  vivifies  the  whole  space. 

StiU  Michel  Angelo  mu^  have  realized  that 
this  conception  lacked  the  tenderness  of  the 
Bible  story,  that  the  God  of  the  Bible  is  not 
in  ^orm  or  temped  hut  in  the  “^ill  small 
voice”.  Another  composition  depidls  Chri^, 
enshrouded  in  the  melancholy  folds  of  his  burial 
hnen,  borne  on  high  by  light  billows  of  trem* 
bling  air  (Fig.  7).) 

One  is  perhaps  tempted  to  assume  the  exi^* 
ence  of  a more  subtile  and  complicated  spiritu* 
ality  in  the  late  works  of  the  great  makers.  In 
reality  the  exadl  opposite  is  the  case,  and  these 
works,  which  seem  rather  to  belong  to  a more 
primitive  era  of  culture  than  to  the  higher 
sphere  of  art,  are  charadlerized  by  a singular 
simphcity  and  directness  of  expression.  Sub* 
tilety  is  not  the  ultimate  ideal  of  the  great  mas* 
ters  though  it  may  he  a mid*^ation  of  their 
development.  Lyrically  gifted  men  of  lesser 
genius,  whose  work  appeals  to  a small  circle 
of  the  ultra*cultured,  may  confine  themselves 
to  the  delineation  of  subtileties,  of  those  inter* 
mediate  ^ates  of  the  soul  which  are  in  reality 


22 


impermanent  and,  in  tlie  long  run,  wearisome. 
The  allegiance  of  the  really  great  arti^  returns 
ultimately  to  the  portrayal  of  those  simple  and 
powerful  emotions  whose  appeal  is  universal. 
Let  us  take  an  example  from  the  realm  of  paint? 
ing.  Rembrandt  twice  depicfted  David  playing 
the  harp  before  Saul.  In  the  early  work  Saul’s 
expression  betrays  a complicated  admixture  of 
feelings — anger,  frar,  a growing  emotion.  In 
the  late  picture  the  old  man  has  simply  bur^ 
into  tears  and  is  drying  his  eyes  with  a fold  of 
the  curtain — a conception  that  is  found  ridicu? 
lous  by  those  inclined  to  “preciosity”. 

This  tendency  explains  the  light  e^eem  in 
which  many  of  the  later  works  of  the  great 
makers  are  held.  It  is  the  result  of  their  sim? 
phcity  and  obviousness,  of  the  purposeful  avoid? 
ance  of  all  glamour  that  might  detradt  from 
reahty. 

The  three  la^  Pietas  carved  by  Michel  An? 
gelo  are  all  unfinished  and  deal  with  the  same 
problem.  In  them  the  relations  between 
Mother  and  Son  seem  closer  than  in  the  earlier 
works — warmer,  more  intimate.  Mary  presses 
the  unconscious  head  to  herself  and  a current  of 
sympathy  seems  to  pass  between  the  dead  and 
the  living.  In  the  first  of  these  groups,  the  one 
at  Pale^rina,  the  head  of  Chridt  re^s  on  the 
Virgin’s  shoulder;  in  the  second,  the  one  in  the 
Rondanini  Palace,  she  bends  over  from  behind 


23 


the  body,  and  the  hands  of  the  dead  Christ, 
thrust  backward,  seem  to  cling  to  her.  Ghostly 
figures  these,  in  which  sentiment  alone  seems 
to  survive.  The  Virgin’s  sorrowful  air  of  deso* 
lation  is  expressed  by  the  very  outlines  of  her 
head.  In  the  last  of  these  groups,  the  one  in  the 
cathedral  at  Florence  (Fig.  8),  Christ’s  head 
sinks  towards  that  of  the  Virgin,  and  the  terri* 
ble  burden  of  the  mighty  body,  more  poignant 
in  its  coUapse  than  that  of  an  ascetic  would  be, 
obviously  overwhelms  her.  The  ^ern  reahsm 
of  the  broken,  twisted  hmbs,  the  loving  minis* 
trations  of  the  friends  surroxmding  the  body, 
their  desolation  which  robs  them  of  ^rength  to 
bear  it  away,  all  are  iniAind:  with  a deeper  hu* 
manity  than  the  arti^  has  ever  attained  before. 

This  group,  designed  by  Michel  Angelo  for 
his  own  tomb,  was  brought  nearer  to  comple* 
tion  than  the  others.  His  failure  to  finish  it  en* 
tirely  was  probably  due  to  the  impossibility  of 
adding  the  missing  left  foot  of  the  Christ.  It 
would  have  been  necessary  to  apply  it,  and  even 
then  there  is  scarcely  space  for  it  beside  the 
V irgin’s  knee.  One  feels  a^onished  that  such  an 
omission  could  have  occurred  in  the  maker’s 
composition.  His  pupils  carried  to  completion 
groups  which  were  technically  much  more 
difficult,  though  it  is  true  they  wasted  no  time 
pondering  the  spiritual  significance  of  their 
efforts.  ^Vhen  a great  genius  falls  into  error  it 


24 


Figure  5. 

Michel  Angelo:  The  Resurrection 
OF  Christ 

Drawing  in  Windsor  Castle. 


Figure  7. 

Michel  Angelo:  The  Resurrection 
OF  Christ 

Drawing  in  the  British  Museum,  London. 


31U§H 

HoifaaHfluzHil  3hT  : ojhohA  j3hdiM 

TZIShO  30  ! 

.sIjzbD  loabniW  ni  §fttwBiQ 


• \ BlJJgt'I 

MOTl'oaaaazaH  eh T ; oaaon  A aanoiM 
ezmhD  ao 

obaoJ  ,n3038irM  rIzbiiS  srlj  nx  §niwBaQ' 


is  as  a rule  a royal  error — a fact  ricli  in  consola? 
tion  for  tKose  wlio,  lacking  individual  creative 
power,  live  by  criticism  of  tbe  great.  ' 

Tbis  simplified  emotional  quality,  di^in* 
guisbing  tbe  later  works  of  tbe  great  makers, 
generally  goes  band  in  band  witb  a ma^ery  of 
more  complicated  formal  problems.  Tbis  mass 
tery  in  Micbel  Angelo’s  case  was  typified  by  bis 
desire  to  carve  groups  embodying  several  figures 
from  a single  massive  block.  The  wish  to 
obtain  symphonic  effects  in  sculpture  was  not 
new.  There  existed  already  facades  and  tombs 
adorned  with  numerous  separate,  loosely* 
related  figures,  whde  the  combination  of  several 
figures  in  bas*relief  was  an  old  ^ory.  It  was, 
however,  cin  unheardsof  innovation  in  free 
sculpture,  which,  through  Michel  Angelo’s 
genius,  had  superseded  the  bas*rehef  of  the 
fifteenth  century. 

Condivi  teUs  us  that  Michel  Angelo  when 
well  advanced  in  years  ^ill  spoke  with  filtered 
of  his  earlier  work,  the  ‘ ‘Battle  of the  Centaxxrs,  ” 
now  in  Casa  Buonarroti,  and  regretted  that  he 
had  not  experimented  further  in  this  direction. 
It  was  in  fadl,  only  in  this  youthful  work  that  he 
essayed  to  reproduce  a mass  of  intertwining 
figures  in  ahno;^  firee  sculpture.  Between  this 
effort  and  his  la^  work  in  sculpture,  the  Pieta 
in  Florence,  he  did  not  again  grapple  with  that 
problem.  This  desire  to  achieve  the  impossible 


25 


visits  almo^  all  riclily  gifted  arti^s  in  early 
youth  and  in  age,  or,  to  put  it  more  simply, 
their  virtuosity  is  then  more  compeUing  than 
at  other  periods.  In  youth  it  is  the  arti^'s  desire 
to  show  his  prowess,  in  age  it  is  the  easy  mass 
tery  of  his  medium,  that  tempts  to  daring  flights. 

Besides  this  grouping  of  masses,  however, 
another  problem  arose  for  Michael  Angelo’s 
solution,  sugge^ed  obviously  by  his  experi* 
ments  in  pidlorial  composition.  In  his  drawings 
and  paintings  he  had  frequently  introduced  figs 
ures  in  flight  and  now,  with  a daring  unheard  of 
at  that  period,  he  was  to  essay  the  representas 
tion  in  scxilpture  of  a suspended  figure.  This 
was  no  quei^lion  of  a mechanically  affixed  figs 
ure,  such  as  the  Chri^  nailed  to  the  cross,  or 
the  angels  in  the  Quattrocento  sculptures,  but 
of  a firee,  floating  body  whose  position  is  deters 
mined  by  the  surrounding  figures  and  by  them 
is  brought  into  relation  with  the  earth.  In  the 
three  groups  last  discussed  by  us  the  Chri^  hes 
suspended  in  the  arms  of  his  friends,  pictori^llly 
and  in  reahty  fireed  firom  earth. 

Though  the  prophetic  importance  of  these 
achievements  in  their  hearing  on  the  future  of 
sculpture  mu^  receive  full  recognition,  there 
is  ground  for  thankfulness  that  the  ma^er  did 
not  pursue  the  path  opened  up  by  his  first  and 
higher  sculptures — a path  leading  to  Bernini 
and  Rodin — but,  in^ead,  during  his  whole  ]i£e> 

26 


time  followed  the  traditional  conception,  ex* 
pressing  his  mighty  message  through  the 
medium  of  a single  self=concentrated  and 
motionless  figure. 

It  would  be  entirely  false  to  deduce  from  the 
nonscompletion  of  these  la^  three  groups  that 
a waning  of  the  arti^’s  powers  had  set  in  he* 
cause  perhaps  his  guarding  grasp  on  the  chisel 
was  less  sure.  Modern  psychologies  hold, 
and  doubtless  rightly,  that  even  with  failing 
bodily  powers  the  mental  attributes  of  a great 
genius  retain  their  freshness  to  the  end.  V/e 
can  ask  no  Wronger  proof  of  Michel  Angelo’s 
unweahened  faculties  than  the  designing  of  the 
dome  of  St.  Peter’s,  which  he  accomplished 
in  his  eightieth  year. 

In  his  la^  years  Michel  Angelo,  dispatching 
some  architedtural  design,  complained  that  his 
lines  had  trembled  and  that  he  had  been  obliged 
to  have  the  drawing  copied  by  one  of  his  pupils, 
which,  considering  the  extremely  minute  spec* 
ifications  that  accompanied  all  his  plans,  was 
no  great  matter.  Compared  to  the  lot  of  a 
painter,  even  to  that  of  the  sculptor  he  himself 
was,  Michel  Angelo  may  he  thought  fortu* 
nate  in  that  his  la^  complete  creations  were 
works  of  architedlure  where  his  great  concep* 
tions  could  shine  forth  in  the  perfection  of  full 
accomplishment. 

^A/^e  can  hardly  consider  it  a mere  coinci* 


27 


dence  that  he  should  in  his  age  have  evinced 
such  a passionate  intere^  in  architedture.  In 
these  laiSt  utter£inces  we  seem  to  divine  his  longs 
ings  for  some  tr£inscendent  expression  of  his 
ideas.  He  has  become  indifferent  to  the  world 
of  recihty  and  seeks  prototypes  of  his  own  crea* 
tion.  There  is  to  he  found  in  the  la^  achieve* 
ments,  alike  of  the  great  northern  and  southern 
masters,  something  of  unre£ility,  of  a phanta^ic 
inspiration  induced  perhaps  hy  a nearer  realif 
zation  of  the  world  to  come.  One  calls  to  mind 
Rubens’  splendid  visionary  landscapes  or  those 
^ange  scenes  depicted  by  Rembrandt  in  his  old 
age — pidlures  of  blind  men  with  groping  hands 
emerging  from  unreal  places,  veiled  in  masses 
of  color,  and  impressing  even  the  unimagina* 
tive  beholder  as  symbols  of  moods  of  the  soul. 

In  the  dome  of  St.  Peter’s  we  have  the  high* 
e^  expression  of  Michel  Angelo’s  plai^ic  ideas, 
although  sculpture  mu^  here  perforce  accom* 
modate  itself  to  the  rules  of  architedlural  sci* 
ence.  Michel  Angelo  took  as  a Parting  point 
Brunelleschi’s  famous  dome  in  Florence  and 
sent  for  the  plans  of  this  splendid  Early  Renais* 
sance  monument  while  he  was  working  on  his 
own  design,  ^^hat  he  derived  from  these  sug* 
gelations  may  be  gathered  by  a comparison  of 
the  two  domes  (Fig.  9). 

In  them  we  see  embodied  the  ideals  of  two 
different  periods.  The  odlagonal  Florentine 

28 


Figure  6. 

Michel  Angelo  : Study  for 
The  Resurrection  of  Christ 
^V^nclso^  Castle. 


.d  siugH 

RO'i  youtS  : ojaowA  jhhdiM 
TeumD  ao  MoiTOSMMUzaR  hhT 
.3ilaf>D  lOghnP'// 


‘■V''i- " 


■■'i  ! l‘.t.*’'  i 


dome,  scarcely  separated  ty  mouldings  from 
the  drum,  rises  ^eep  and  slender  with  the  slim, 
angular  outhnes  of  the  Early  Renaissance,  out* 
hnes  that  we  see  repeated  in  the  sculptures  and 
paintings  of  the  period,  in  RosseUino’s  works, 
and  in  Botticelli’s  compositions.  There  is  also 
something  of  the  Gothic  in  the  soaring  ribs 
which  form  an  almo^  open  framework,  the 
spaces  between  them  seeming  by  comparison 
empty  and  unimportant  surfaces. 

In  contrail  to  this  earher  building,  the  dome 
of  St.  Peter’s  impresses  us  with  its  massive  so* 
hdity.  It  is  largely  covered  by  the  more  numer* 
ous  and  heavy  ribs.  Typical  of  the  High  Re* 
naissance  are  its  full  exuberant  curves,  clearly 
defined  at  the  base  and  the  summit  by  strong 
mouldings  and  by  the  immediate  springing  of 
the  colonnade  of  the  cupola,  which  is  not  united 
with  the  dome  by  consoles  as  it  is  in  Brunei* 
leschi’s  work.  This  is  the  crown  of  a develop* 
ment  in  which  rich  and  splendid  architedlural 
forms  were  evolved  from  slender  and  dehcate 
beginnings — the  fulfilment  of  ideals  whose 
promise  is  embodied  in  the  earher  work. 

No  less  di^indl,  however,  is  the  spiritual 
chasm  dividing  the  creators  of  these  two  monu* 
ments.  The  Florentine  dome,  the  work  of  an 
architect,  is,  like  all  true  architedlure,  imper* 
sonal,  having  grown  in  an  unerring  way  hke  a 
veritable  work  of  nature.  It  is  a pleasing  play  of 


29 


forms  and  lines,  harmoniously  interflowing, 
swelling  and  subsiding  wavelike,  a worthy 
crown  for  joyous,  £irtiloving  Florence.  The 
Roman  dome  is  the  creation  of  a passionate 
pcrson£ihty,  the  symbol  of  an  inner  conflict 
gloriously  expressed  in  stone.  Its  mighty  swell 
seems  an  impulse  from  the  inside,  but  it  is  fet* 
tered  to  earth  by  powerful  bonds.  The  balloon 
strains  upward  but  the  cords  that  encircle  it  are 
tied  to  the  ground  by  the  strong  knots  of  the 
mouldings,  and  it  is  gathered  together  at  the  top 
by  a clu^er  of  columns.  These  opposing  forces 
clash  again  in  the  separate  parts  of  the  struc* 
ture.  The  double  columns  of  the  dome  press 
outward,  the  windows  between  would  seem 
to  thrust  them  back.  The  little  windows  in  the 
dome  accentuate  the  value  of  the  wall^spaces 
between  the  ribs  and  add  their  quota  to  the 
vibrant  life  of  the  building,  breaking  forth  be# 
tween  the  interlacing  lines  as  if  in  an  effort  to 
grant  air  to  the  straining  lArudture.  Yet,  strange 
to  say,  if  we  leave  the  immediate  neighborhood 
of  the  building,  and  contemplate  this  dome  from 
a di^ance,  the  inward  combat  of  the  component 
parts  and  their  massive,  forceful  lines  resolve 
themselves  into  harmonies.  Stately  yet  light, 
it  rises  above  the  walls  of  Rome,  ever  striving 
upwards  in  soaring  lines  comparable  to  those 
of  Michel  Angelo’s  drawings  where  Christ  is 
rising  from  the  tomb  and  ascending  to  heaven. 


30 


IT  would  seem  that,  of  all  arti^s,  Michel  An« 
gelo  in  so  crowning  his  life-work  mu^  have 
found  happiness.  Apparently  he  had  all  that 
the  heart  of  man  could  desire — an  assured  hvelh 
hood  cind  unmeasured  renown.  The  honor 
shown  him  hy  the  world  during  the  la^  twenty 
years  of  his  Kfe  is  well  known.  Did  he  become 
wearied  of  a commission  and  fail  to  finish  it,  the 
fadl  was  overlooked  hy  the  Pope  and  his  other 
patrons.  The  princes  of  Italy,  the  Duke  of  Urbi* 
no,  and  the  Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany  held  them* 
selves  fortunate  to  obtain  a small  sketch  from 
him.  The  King  of  France  and  the  Sultan  of  Con* 
^antinople  offered  him  enormous  sums  in  their 
endeavors  to  attach  him  to  their  respective 
courts.  Despite  all  this,  to  read  his  biography 
and  especially  his  letters  is  to  reahze  that  he  was 
one  of  the  lea^  enviable  of  men.  He  was  unfit* 
ted  hy  nature  to  maintain  natural  and  harmon* 
ious  relations  with  his  fellow  men,  to  bring  sym* 
pathy  to  their  concerns,  or  even  to  mingle  with 
them  without  personal  discomfort.  His  ner* 
vous,  re^less  nature  found  peace  neither  in 
work  nor  in  recreation.  He  never  married,  and 
his  house  in  Rome  must  have  been  but  bleak  and 
comfortless.  We  learn  firom  his  journal  of  inces* 
sant  bickerings  with  servants,  none  of  whom, 
with  the  exception  of  his  faithful  servitor  Urhi* 
no,  could  please  him.  He  let  the  little  garden 
surrounding  his  house  grow  wild.  His  long  sol* 


itude  had  rendered  him  imsociahle  and  intensi* 
fied  his  hahit  of  brooding,  particularly  on  the 
approach  of  death.  V/hen  fifty  years  old,  al* 
most  forty  years  before  he  died,  he  already 
compleiined  of  the  burdens  of  age,  although  his 
con^itution  was  wonderful  and  he  was  almo^ 
never  ill.  During  the  la^  twenty  years  of  his 
life  his  mind  was  so  obsessed  with  the  que^ion 
of  the  world  to  come  that,  as  he  himself  once  ob# 
served,  “there  Uved  in  him  no  thought  but  in 
which  death  had  a part”.  On  the  fairway  of 
his  dwelling  there  was  painted  as  a memento 
mori  a skeleton  bearing  a coffin  on  its  back. 

He  suffered  his  whole  life  long  firom  dreams 
and  visions,  and  firom  imaginings  of  possible  ill 
treatment  at  the  hands  of  his  patrons  which 
occasionaJly  wrought  upon  his  nerves  to  such  a 
point  that  he  fled  the  city.  In  an  endeavor  to 
subdue  these  violent  fimcies  he  lived  with  the 
utmoiA  simplicity,  like  a poor  artisan  in  fadl, 
ate  sparingly,  drank  not  at  all,  and  sought  to 
hmit  his  hours  of  sleep.  Tooprotradted  slumbers 
induced  headache,  and  he  frequently  ^ayed 
up  aU  night  working  at  his  sculptures  by  artifi# 
cial  light.  The  short  chronicle  of  his  la^  illness 
teUs  us  that  peace  eluded  him  to  the  very  end. 
^Vhile  his  friends  befieved  the  ninety*year?old 
patient  in  bed,  one  of  them  met  him  wandering 
around  the  Greets  in  the  rain.  “What  do  you 
want?”  said  the  sculptor  when  chided  for  his 


32 


Figure  8. 

Michel  Angelo  : Pieta 
Cathedral  in  Florence 


.8 

ATaiQ  : OJaovxA  jhhoiM 
sonsTtoH  nr  iBibsrbsD 


: ' r'i.’ 


•,  . f4 . .'..t'^.  ^ ; 

-V 

7 -:u? 

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1 , . ■ ■ -■  f' 

' ''•'  «:■  'i 

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'1 

;■(■:„  ,4 !,  ‘;7;;.,,^,Fr7,::,j:,x>u;.;v- 

'-  ’’  , 

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W 

m 


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,’•■>■  , \.; J ,t_ 


‘Vi;>7.'l:v.;''.A'-.  .-"if 


’ V ■ . 

■h  i'.AiJ-'.  '•■  .^’'V.f 


indiscretion.  “I  am  ill  and  can  nowhere  find  re* 
pose.”  \Vhen  he  was  again  at  home  and  sleep 
threatened  to  overpower  him  in  the  daytime, 
he  ^ruggled  againi^  it  eind  hegged  to  he  taken 
out.  Weakness  overcame  him,  however,  and, 
bed  being  unendurable,  he  died  in  his  armchair 
— a litubborn  fighter  to  the  end. 

This  temperamental  unre^  is  the  probable 
explanation  of  his  social  shortcomings  and  of 
the  shyness  of  which  his  biographers  speeik. 
The  ma^er  himself,  once  attempting  to  ex* 
plain  the  reserve  which  he  maintained  towards 
nriends  as  well  as  i^rangers,  replied  that  he  “did 
not  wish  to  be  diverted  by  idle  chatter  from 
the  thoughts  that  con^antly  occupied  him  and 
thereby  drawn  down  to  the  trivialities  of  daily 
hfe;  he  had  no  time  for  such  things.”  He  took 
everything  too  seriously  and  had  none  of  the 
adaptability  that  oils  the  wheels  of  human  inter* 
course.  From  this  arose  the  numerous  Httle 
slights  of  which  he  was  found  guilty — the  non* 
recognition  of  people  on  the  ^reet,  the  unan* 
swered  letters,  the  failure  to  uncover  his  head  in 
the  presence  of  the  Pope,  his  abrupt  departure 
firom  social  gatherings  did  he  fail  to  feel  himself 
at  ease — actions  which  earned  for  him  the  name 
ofa  proud  recluse.  “It  is  absurd  that  vain  busy* 
bodies  should  demand  profuse  civilities  firom  a 
busy  artiA”,  said  he  of  his  detradrers  and,  again, 
“The  true  worth  of  the  unworldly  recluse  mud 


33 


ever  remain  hidden  from  you.  Do  you  heiAow 
on  him  high  praise,  it  is  through  a desire  to  do 
honor  to  yourselves  and  because  it  pleases  you 
to  talk  with  one  who  converses  with  Pope  and 
Emperor.”  To  the  sugge^ion  that  he  was  for* 
tunate  in  obtaining  the  Pope’s  forgiveness  of  his 
frequent  sins  agaim^t  etiquette  his  reply  was,  “It 
is  precisely  such  sins  that  a Prince  mu^  overs 
look.”  He  had  a high  conception  of  the  attitude 
of  the  true  aristocrat. 

It  may  seem  strange  that  Michel  Angelo 
should  have  had  an  outspoken  weakness  for 
rank.  It  is  a tendency  obviously  rooted  in  his 
arti^ic  temperament,  andshared  with  many  an* 
other  great  airti^ — with  V an  Dyck  and  Rubens, 
with  Rembrandt  and  Velasquez,  for  example. 
The  outward  harmonies  of  the  great  world 
charmed  his  arti^’s  eye,  seeming  perhaps  to  fill 
that  void  of  which  he  was  so  conscious  in  his 
own  everysday  life.  Added  to  this  was  his  in* 
nate  consciousness  of  superiority,  the  necessity 
of  everywhere  taking  fir^  rank,  of  ruling  even 
in  that  mo^  fleeting  of  all  life’s  fleeting  shows — 
the  social  world.  Had  society’s  conventions 
come  more  easily  to  him  they  would  have 
seemed  of  less  moment,  for  his  true  friends,  cap* 
able  of  xmderstanding  his  inner  conflicJls,  were 
not  among  the  frivolous  representatives  of  the 
upper  classes  hut  in  the  ranks  of  arti^s  and 
scholars . This  with  one  notable  exception  who 


34 


doubtless  inspired  bim  witb  bis  ideal  of  true  no^ 
bibty.  Ireferto  VittoriaColonna. 

Vittoria  Colonna  bad  reached  tbe  age  of 
forty^six  wben  sbe  met  tbe  sixtystbree^year; 
old  Micbel  Angelo.  Wbile  ber  superiority  of 
mind  drew  about  ber  tbe  moi^  inteUigent  ad* 
berents  of  tbe  Catholic  Church,  then  engaged 
in  its  Juggle  again^  tbe  Reformation,  ber  per* 
sonal  exigence  seemed  submerged  in  grief  for 
ber  dead  husband,  tbe  Marcbese  di  Pescara. 
This  celebrated  general,  who  fell  at  tbe  battle 
of  Pavia,  seems  scarcely  to  have  merited  such 
devotion.  Vittoria  was  obliged  to  suffer  tbe 
return  by  one  of  bis  mistresses  of  some  pearls 
taken  from  bis  wife  by  Pescara  and  by  bim 
dropped  upon  tbe  other’s  brea^  during  some 
fete.  Tbe  Marcbesa’s  recollections  of  ber  idol 
seem  in  tbe  course  of  time  to  have  been  purged 
of  all  ahoy,  and  tbe  hundred  sonnets  that  sbe 
wrote  on  tbe  death  of  Pescara  did  but  augment 
tbe  celebrity  that  ber  personality  bad  abeady 
gained  for  ber.  Charming  blossoms  of  Renais* 
sance  culture  though  these  poems  be,  they  do 
not  compel  our  intere^  as  they  did  that  of  ber 
contemporaries. 

Vittoria  Colonna  belonged  among  those 
noble*minded  and  rarely  gifted  women  who  are 
produced  by  tbe  arti^ically  cultured  society  of 
all  periods,  women  who  are  tbe  patrons  and  tbe 
inspiration  of  its  creative  spirits.  Their  names 


35 


alone  are  known  to  ki^ory,  for  tkeir  perform* 
ance  was  played  out  on  the  ^age  of the  moment. 
The  written  words  of  such  personalities  as 
Beatrice  d’E^e,  Isabella  Gonzaga,  and  Vittoria 
Colonna  would  not  eilone  suffice  to  render  them 
immortal,  hut  their  spirit  fives  on  in  the  works 
of  a Mantegna,  a Bellini,  and  a Michel  Angelo 
whose  inspiration  they  were.  V ittoria’s  visible 
work  was  at  an  end  when  the  charm  of  her 
personality,  the  penetrating  sympathy  of  her 
conversation  were  no  more — a shortlived  work, 
of  less  importance  to  hi^ory  hut  more  enviable 
in  reality  than  all  the  achievements  of  the  ma^er 
she  inspired.  The  fruits  of  his  spirit  were  for 
future  generations,  hers  for  the  world  around 
her. 

In  Vittoria  Michel  Angelo  found  high  rank 
and  the  true^  culture  combined.  Their  in* 
tere^  in  the  religious  and  poetic  tendencies  of 
the  period  was  sympathetic,  and  her  insight 
into  the  spirit  which  animated  his  ma^erpieces 
was  deep.  Above  all,  however,  she  had  that 
facility  of  expression  and  mobility  of  mind  for 
which  he  strove  in  vain  in  his  complex  poems 
and  letters.  It  was  her  gift,  when  with  Michel 
Angelo  in  the  company  of  this  or  the  other 
friend,  to  diredl  the  conversation  with  charm 
and  tadl,  contriving  always  that  the  great  arti^ 
should  occupy  the  center  of  the  ^age.  V/ith 
her  clever  woman’s  under^anding  she  helped 

36 


Figure  9. 

Dome  of  the  Cathedral  in  Florence 


Dome  of  Saint  Peter’s  in  Rome 


.(D  siirgia 

aDVI35IOjH  KII  JA^CiaHTAD  3HT  30  3MoQ 


aMo5I  i'll  2'jia:'ra'5  Tmia8  30  3MoQ 


. ;s  iA  -kK-  vV'??;  iv.  f - j J : 

'•,'!,. i '^?V'  ’'''''.i!  ■'"  '!*J  ■' ,/'V  ’.'-.'V  •: 'v^'- ,.'■  'v‘’i  :'*■  V’-‘t  • •/  U’^,H  "'\  •^’’ 

‘"•'  ' ' ■ ,n-. 

" ^ '’  ■ ' *^  ■ V ' '^4  r '■'  r ■ ''^ *i-  '■■fl) 

' .,»'J  X ' 


\ 71.  ( ■y-^' 

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V;  ;’"•"  ..- 

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liim  over  those  little  errors  which  wovild  have 
passed  almo^  unnoticed  hy  another  and  yet 
perhaps  touched  him  more  nearly  than  greater 
ones.  In  gratitude  for  this  indulgence  towards 
trivial  weaknesses  he  opened  his  heart  to  her 
with  the  naivete  of  a child,  with  a tru^  that 
seems  Httle  less  than  wonderful,  if  we  consider 
the  pessimi^ic  and  sensitive  nature  of  the  man. 
It  was  typical  of  the  inherent  greatness  of  his 
charadler  that  his  admiration  for  this  nohle 
spirit  knew  no  hounds. 

More  than  in  her  poems,  more  than  in  her 
letters,  the  key  to  Vittoria  Colonna’s  personal# 
ity  and  to  her  deep  understanding  of  human 
nature  lies  revealed  in  her  words  addressed  to 
Michel  Angelo,  “Those  who  knowyour  works 
know  hut  your  lesser  part.”  No  one  else  has 
rendered  such  glowing  homage  to  that  difficult 
and  thorny  cheiradter.  It  was  her  immortal 
achievement  to  draw  the  true  personality  of 
this  lonely  and  reserved  man  firom  the  depths 
that  concealed  it  to  the  light  of  day.  What  an 
influence  this  fireeing  of  his  real  nature  exerted 
on  Michel  Angelo’s  work  we  may  deduce  from 
the  passionate  outbreak  of  sorrow  that  her 
death  occasioned. 

There  is  no  reason  to  doubt  the  truth  of 
Vittoria  Colonna’s  assertion  and  of  that  of  his 
he^  fidends  that  Michel  Angelo’s  nature  was 
planned  on  as  noble  a scale  as  were  his  works. 


37 


How  indeed  could  it  he  otherwise?  The  theory 
that  an  arti^’s  true  personaUty  may  well  be  dia# 
metrically  opposed  to  the  aspect  that  is  revealed 
to  the  world  by  his  achievement,  has  always 
been  the  mereiA  superficiality.  As  an  arti^, 
Michel  Angelo  chose  that  medium  which 
seemed  to  him  moi^b  natural  and  expressive — 
pla^ic  art.  The  expression  of  his  personality 
in  words  or  in  some  form  of  social  adlivity 
was  not  so  natural  to  him,  else  he  would  have 
been  a poet  or  an  actor  on  the  ^age  of  the  theatre 
or  of  the  world.  The  misapprehensions  to 
which  he  laid  himself  open  had  their  root  in 
the  hmitations  of  his  nature  in  relation  to  the 
non*essentials  of  life,  limitations  commensurate 
with  his  surpassing  gifts  in  other  directions. 
Those  who  to-day  can  see  beyond  his  halting 
utterances  will,  Hke  Vittoria  Colonna,  discover 
there  the  same  spirit  that  shines  forth  in  his 
works — a delicate  soul  encased  in  rugged 
armor! 


38 


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